


something to look forward to

by thecaryatid



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sylvain Jose Gautier, Dom/sub Undertones, Light Angst, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, pre-timeskip sylvain, timeskip felix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:54:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25531681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecaryatid/pseuds/thecaryatid
Summary: A five-years-older Felix mysteriously appears at Garreg Mach. Sylvain absolutely doesn't have any messy, conflicted feelings about it, and he definitely doesn't want to fuck this older version of his grumpiest friend.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 29
Kudos: 299





	something to look forward to

“It’s weird, right?” Sylvain says, risking life and limb to steal a sliver of potato from Ingrid’s plate. 

“Of course it’s weird. How would it not be weird?” Ingrid says, glaring and taking one of his sweet buns in retaliation.

“What do you think, Felix?” Sylvain says, turning toward his grumpiest friend. 

Felix stabs at a slice of sausage with a viciousness that it certainly hasn’t earned. He doesn’t respond. 

A drawn-out _Feeeelix_ doesn’t get his attention, and neither does Sylvain kicking him under the table. He considers stealing some of Felix’s food, but the goal is getting a response, not dying in the Garreg Mach dining hall. 

“I really don’t think he’s listening to you,” Ingrid says, which, yeah, obvious. 

And the reason’s clear as day, as obvious as the scowl on Felix’s face, and seated on the opposite side of the dining hall - eating the same food, wearing the same black hair in a different messy bun, staring at the world through the same eyes. 

One Felix is already a lot of Felix. But two Felix’s? The angry teenager he’s used to and this future stranger? It’s really fucking weird. 

“Has he talked to anyone but the professor?” Sylvain tried to corner him earlier, who _wouldn’t_ want to talk with their five-years-older friend given the chance, but Felix just stared at him for one tense moment and turned away. 

“He spoke to me briefly,” Ingrid says. “It was awkward. So awkward. Our Felix hasn’t become more graceful.” 

“Huh. I bet he hasn’t talked to Dimitri, though, right?” 

Ingrid sighs. “They spoke earlier. Apparently he was trying to be sincere.” 

Of course even this future Felix couldn’t avoid the prince entirely. “But you haven’t talked, right?” Sylvain says, turning toward their Felix. 

Who stabs his food again. “He tried. I left.” 

“Okaaay, so that’s all of you. Why won’t he talk to me?” Sylvain stares across the dining hall, squinting at Felix’s Faerghus-blue cloak, searching for the amber glint of his eyes. He elbows his own Felix. “Hey, what’s future-you’s problem with me?” 

“How would I know? I’m not him,” Felix says, which is literally not true, but in the interest of a quiet meal he doesn’t argue. 

It bothers him; chases him through his classes, won’t leave him alone when he hits the town. If Felix won’t talk to him, won’t meet his eyes, won’t even stand in his presence, something must have happened, right? 

* * *

There’s a chance to corner Felix soon enough. He’s at the training grounds the next morning. Sylvain wouldn’t have known—it’s not like he spends time there—but his Felix stalked up to him in the dining hall and groused about how the _other_ Felix was talking to their professor in the training hall, taking up space and not even sparring. 

So he slings an arm over _his_ Felix’s shoulder and heads off. 

“What are you doing?” Felix snaps as he’s half-dragged down the hall.

“You know, I thought I’d go use the training grounds.” He’s burning up with cold curiosity that he barely keeps out of his voice. 

“Did you not hear anything I just said?” Felix finally shrugs out from his grasp, slapping Sylvain’s hand away for good measure.

“You don’t expect me to train, right? I just want to know what our _guest_ is up to.” 

Felix scoffs, a noise familiar as his voice. “Of course that’s what you’re doing. You just can’t stay away from him.”

Sylvain shrugs and drapes his arm over Felix’s shoulders again, just to be obnoxious. Who wouldn’t be interested in a visitor from the future? Particularly when that visitor is Felix himself, older and stronger, cloaked in confidence. “You caught me. I just want another look at you.”

He awkwardly pushes open the training room doors one-handed, Felix still comfortably tucked against his side. Felix doesn’t pull away this time; he’s been ill at ease around his older self, and Sylvain’s over-familiar touches are a comfort. 

The older Felix looks up as they enter, pausing some sword routine; the training grounds are empty, so presumably the professor finished whatever business they had with him. His frown tightens, as it has every other time Sylvain enters his view. 

Sylvain more or less drags his Felix over to the center of the training grounds. Right in front of the older Felix, whose frown is more of a grimace now. 

He looks tired, exhausted, like undirected determination is the only thing keeping him upright. But he also looks, well, _good_. His face has gone from slightly-squishy teenager to lean and sharp; he’s lighter on his feet; he holds himself like he knows a fight will happen, and knows that he will win. And the outfit doesn’t hurt. Sylvain itches to slide his palm over the top of those ridiculous boots, tug at the buckles of Felix’s coat, dig his fingers into the stupid nest of his hair. 

“Do you need something?” Felix asks, all ice and sharp edges and abrupt politeness. 

“Not really. Not unless you want to spill all your future secrets, anyway. I just thought I’d compare.” 

He looks from his Felix to the other and back again. They pinch their eyebrows together in identical expressions of consternation. It’s kind of adorable. But he turns to _his_ Felix and, ever prepared to risk death by stabbing, pokes at his cheek. 

“Look, Felix, you lost all your baby fat.” Felix does not have much baby fat. He was a scrawny kid and he’s a scrawny teen, narrow bones barely cushioned by a layer of muscle. But there’s roundness still clinging to his cheeks, obscuring the edges of his cheekbones. It’s all gone in the older Felix, like every unnecessary detail got smoothed away to leave behind nothing but Felix’s essential sharpness. It’s a nice look; Felix grows up pretty.

Predictably, Felix makes a disgusted hissing sound—Sylvain makes a mental note to tease him about how he sounds like an angry cat—and stomps away.

So that’s just him and the other Felix, all alone in the sand. 

“So what’s the future like?”

Felix’s mouth twists in a grimace, harsh and frustrated. “I can’t talk about that.” 

“Right, right, nice excuse. You’ve talked to everyone else. Why avoid me? Come on, did I finally drive you away?” 

“Sylvain,” Felix says, and for a moment he sounds like _his_ Felix, tired and annoyed, about to scold him for staying out too late. The illusion shatters when he walks away, puts his training sword back in the weapon stand, leaves without another word. 

“Well shit,” Sylvain says, left alone in the training grounds. “What’s his problem? Do I die or something?”

* * *

It was bothering him before; it’s worse now. _Something_ must have happened, right? Something must make Felix distance himself like he wishes Sylvain was a stranger. So, next logical step, confront Felix once he retires for the night. It’s not like it can make things worse. 

There are no weapons lying propped against the wall of Felix’s guestroom, no scattered bits of debris strewn around the floor, no general sense of disarray. It’s disconcerting. Felix himself is standing by the window, hand on his sword and expression pensive. 

“Hey, Felix,” Sylvain says, clever lines all lost at the sight of Felix’s frown. The shadows worn deeper and darker under Felix’s eyes, the stupid intentionally-messy ponytail, the thoughtful cast to his eyes. “You look good.” 

He looks _tired_ , aged perhaps five years but carrying decades of exhaustion in the straightness of his spine and the set of his shoulders, in the worn buckles of his belt and in the sword hilt smoothed by use into mirror-perfect metal.

“Do I,” Felix says, and there’s that wry, flat response Sylvain’s so used to. It sucks the air from his lungs, it crushes down his heartbeat. 

“Nah, you look like you got dragged through three types of hell, but you really pull it off. I like the boots.” Dark, dramatic thigh-highs; they look like a fashion statement. Felix is standing there with the oddest expression, curiosity and trepidation and some other element carefully guarded in the harsh squint of his eyes, unfamiliar like none of _his_ Felix’s expressions are. 

“There’s a war going on.” Felix’s breath isn’t quite a sigh. “And you always have to comment on the boots.” 

“Always? You make it sound like we spend a lot of time together. So, what, we’re buddies? Partners? Fighting side by side, together to the end, that sort of thing?” He’s babbling. It’s hard to catch up to his thoughts with Felix looking at him like he’s a letter with the ink half washed away. But he hasn’t been kicked out, Felix hasn’t left; that’s good, right?

“Something like that,” Felix says, soft and intense.

Feeling daring, he steps across the room. Felix hasn’t gotten any taller in the years he’s gained; it feels wrong, how Sylvain could lean down and kiss his forehead. 

“So what’s changed? Come on, there’s something you don’t want to say. Am I dead?” His laugh is harsh, too loud and too broken.

“You aren’t dead. Why would you be dead?” His little pout is so familiar.

“So why can you barely look at me, Felix? You’ve been avoiding me since you got here. I’m that bad in your future, right? I fucked up in some way you can’t forgive?”

Felix stares. He steps further into the space that Sylvain’s already carved out, closes the half-step between them.

It takes a minute to register: Sylvain’s being hugged. He’s being hugged by Felix, sharp, angry, _older_ Felix, wrapping arms around his shoulders like it’s as natural as—as breathing, or sparring. 

“You’re not going to hug me back?” Felix says into his ear. 

His hands have been hanging useless at his sides, haven't they. Stupid, needlessly hesitant. He crushes Felix into the hug.

Felix isn’t any taller. But his slight frame is packed with muscle that shifts and tenses under Sylvain’s fingers. He’s so used to engulfing Felix on the rare occasions he’s allowed this close, but _this_ Felix’s shoulders are as broad as his own. He doesn’t pull away as Sylvain cuddles him closer; he doesn’t even make a noise of complaint as Sylvain nuzzles his nose against the crown of his head. 

He’s never thought much about how Felix smells, you know? He always smells like a sweaty teenager who spurns perfumes and hasn’t quite internalized the importance of shampoo. This Felix smells like Felix _ought_ to, oiled leather and cleanliness.

Felix finally pulls away, pressing firm hands into Sylvain’s chest and shoving. “Wow, rude,” Sylvain says automatically. 

“Shut up. I’m thinking,” Felix says, pushing his bangs away from his forehead. 

“Thinking, sure,” Sylvain says, and who knows what Felix is thinking about with his face all scrunched up like that, scowling toward the floor. It doesn’t look like Sylvain’s being kicked out, at least, so he leans back against the door and waits until Felix reaches whatever conclusion he’s working toward. 

“I can’t tell you why I’m here,” Felix says, like he’s thinking it through out loud. “But maybe I can…” 

“Hmm?”

Felix snaps back into rigid decisiveness. “Sylvain.” 

“Felix.” 

“You asked why I was avoiding you.” 

And, fuck, there’s the dread at the thought of what he could have _done_ to make Felix avoid him and then hug him like that. “Are you going to tell me?” 

Felix blushes. Slowly, from the tips of his ears down to his neck, turning bright pink and muttering something inaudible.

“Uh, I didn’t quite catch that?” 

“Sylvain,” Felix says, out loud and not directed at the floor this time, taking one precise step right into Sylvain’s space, “we’re lovers.” 

“Uh,” Sylvain says eloquently.

“We’re, uh,” he squeaks, and stops again. It’s not like Sylvain never admired Felix’s piercing eyes, or stared at the unbuttoned top of his vest, or thought about winding that long hair between his fingers. Sure, maybe he’s one or two vivid dreams featuring Felix’s hands and stupid tight uniform. But Felix never showed any interest in anyone, least of all Sylvain. And a few casual fantasies don’t make for _lovers_.

Except the _other_ Felix is standing right in front of him, arms crossed and feet planted, close enough to kiss. He’s gorgeous, even with the tired eyes and the disastrous hair.

What’s love, really? Fuck if Sylvain knows anyone who could define it, but he wants to pin Felix down in a nice warm bed, yank on his ponytail, kiss him stupid, keep him safe. 

“Lovers, wow. Any chance I get a preview?” All the tension of _how did I fuck up this badly_ drains out, replaced by giddy relief. _Lovers_ , huh. “I never knew you liked men.” 

“I should have known that’s what you’d say,” Felix grumbles, hiding a smile. 

“That’s a yes, right?” Sylvain drops his voice to a purr, tilts Felix’s chin back with one gentle hand. “You’re tired. Let me ease some of that tension.”

Felix laughs. When was the last time Felix laughed like that, quiet and careless? Sylvain’s so close he can see the way his eyes crinkle up and how one side of his mouth smiles a little wider than the other; he’s so smug and sure of himself. It’s a good look. 

“That isn’t how this goes,” Felix says.

Sylvain doesn’t have the chance for a single witty comeback before Felix closes the last of the space between them, brushes his lips against Sylvain’s once before kissing in earnest, like he belongs there, like there’s no point in exploring. And, well, _fuck_ , Sylvain thinks between the stutters of his mind. 

At some point in the years that lie between them, Felix learned exactly how Sylvain likes to be kissed. Firm and steady, guided with a hand clenched through his hair and angling his jaw, drawing out each one until he’s earnestly breathless. 

“Fuck. _Fuck_ ,” Sylvain pants when he parts from Felix. And Felix, for his part, caresses his jawline with a thumb thoughtlessly, possessively, like _of course_ Sylvain is his to touch however he pleases. And he is, he _is_. 

“Well?” Felix says. “What do you want, Sylvain.” 

He’s boxed in against the door, pinned between Felix’s hands and hard wood, and fuck if he’s ever wanted anything more than he wants to lay Felix out on the bed, kiss down his throat and mouth at his cock. “I kind of thought it was obvious,” Sylvain says.

“You have to use your words,” Felix says, blinking up at him like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Do I get to fuck you or what?” Sylvain snaps. 

“Or what.” The corner of Felix’s mouth twitches in a smile. “I get to fuck _you_. Unless you have an objection?” 

There’s no room for objection over the line that Felix’s hand is tracing on his cheek, the sheer fucking magnetism of Felix older and harder and more confident, looking up like Sylvain is all he wants. 

“Nope, not a problem, definitely no problem with that.” Goddess, some future Sylvain has probably told him exactly how often he’s dreamed of Felix. 

Felix grunts, satisfied. “Good boy.”

It’s really not fair how that makes Sylvain feel, strangling back his whine and pretending his boner isn’t any worse than it was a minute ago. All he needs is a kink for Felix saying he’s _good_ . At least _his_ Felix isn’t likely to say anything of the sort in public.

“You enjoy that, by the way,” Felix says as he pulls Sylvain over to the bed. “You love being good for me.” 

Surely there’s a clever response he could make. But Felix short-circuits all of them as he guides Sylvain down to his knees.

“Well? Undress me,” Felix says, stroking Sylvain’s hair possessively.

At least Sylvain’s hands don’t shake as he undoes Felix’s coat. Muscle memory is a hell of a thing, remembering exactly how clothes work while his brain takes an abrupt vacation. Felix doesn’t stop him, just strokes his hair while Sylvain pulls off his boots and pants, and Felix also doesn’t stop him when he kisses at the crease of his knees and up the insides of his thighs until he’s kissing Felix’s half-hard cock.

It’s a nice cock, so perfectly average it’s almost kind of funny. But Felix is still waiting, sits there with his tiny smirk and smug, dark eyes, sending shivers down Sylvain’s spine every time the tips of his fingers scrape over his scalp. 

“Go on.” Felix drags his thumb over Sylvain’s lips. “Let me use your mouth.” 

Sylvain would say he’s got a pretty high tolerance for dirty talk. He’s heard it all; he’s said it all. He hasn’t, however, ever heard Felix ask to _use_ him, and Sylvain’s pretty sure his ears are burning when he leans in and gives a little lick to the tip of his dick. 

“So obedient.” 

Sylvain just _shudders_ , kneeling untouched on the floor and already achingly hard. 

“Take more.” The tug in his hair is gentle; it’s an ignorable suggestion. But it’s Felix and his stupid pretty eyes and his stupid gentle orders and his stupid praise, leaving Sylvain with absolutely no desire to ignore even the mildest suggestion. 

So, you know, he takes more. Sylvain wraps his lips around the tip of Felix’s cock. He’s fighting back the need to gag by the time his nose is brushing the wiry hair on Felix’s groin, but Felix is spilling tiny, pleased moans above him, tightening his hands in Sylvain’s hair, very gasping out fragments of _good, yes, Sylvain_.

He closes his eyes and lets himself be _used_ , moans far back in his throat as Felix keeps his head pressed between his legs, tonguing sloppily around the base of Felix’s cock and breathing shallowly through his nose. 

He’s starting to feel a little hazy when Felix pulls him off drool dripping down his chin, coughing as he finally gets a deep breath of air. Felix hasn’t cum; Sylvain noses questioningly at his thigh. 

“Perfect,” Felix says, brushing away a tear that Sylvain hadn’t even noticed, and Sylvain fucking whines again, quivers all down his spine. “Can I fuck you?”

This should be infuriating, right? Kneeling here, ordered around for Felix’s pleasure, rewarded with scraps of praise. It should be so awful, but fuck if he doesn’t want to be taken apart however Felix wants, spread open and used. 

“Please. Please fuck me, Felix, please,” much more fervently than Sylvain meant to speak, startling a tiny laugh out of Felix. Which, fair. He must look pretty laughable, on the ground with his jaw and knees sore, still in his academy uniform. 

“Good.” Felix nudges his foot against Sylvain’s painfully obvious erection, barely more than a tap, still enough to make Sylvain whimper and rock up against it. “I like it when you’re eager. Now, take your pants off.”

There’s a request he can follow. Sylvain unbuttons his pants, goes through the awkward process of shucking them off without standing up. Finally he’s kneeling with his legs bare and his erection exposed. 

Felix smirks at it and bends down, gives one long, slow stroke from the base of Sylvain's cock to the tip. It’s just a touch, not even a handjob. Sylvain presses into it like he’s some untouched virgin.

“That’s right. You’ll be good, won’t you? You’ll stay desperate for me,” Felix says, like Sylvain’s desperation deserves a reward.

“I will, I will.” Who let him be this beautiful? Muscular and scarred, unthinkingly confident, so used to control.

Felix pats the bed. “Come up here.” 

And Sylvain goes, sits himself next to Felix with their knees barely brushing.

“Undo your shirt. Keep it on, though,” Felix says, and Sylvain does, unbuttoning it with trembling, awkward fingers and opening it, exposing his chest to Felix’s approving nod. 

“Lie back,” Felix orders, and Sylvain does. 

Stupid how the contrast of his opened shirt makes him feel more exposed. Stupid how Felix sitting on the bed, leaning over him and just barely tracing his skin with a fingertip makes him squirm like he’s never been touched before, how a single careless flick at one of his nipples has his back arching and thighs trembling. 

“You look good like this.” Felix’s regard settles over him like a warm blanket of arousal, and fuck, Sylvain doesn’t think it’s possible to cum totally untouched, but at the rate he’s going it’ll take about three sentences and one of those tantalizingly slow touches at his cock to make him spill. 

Reflex lets him say “Not as good as you do.” Felix is older and settled, sharper-eyed and so intentional as he teases Sylvain apart. And, fuck, how long has he had a thing for Felix for? It must be a while, for him to be so stupid lovestruck right now, so willing to do anything for a smile and a _good boy_.

Felix flattens his hands over Sylvain’s chest before going back to play with his nipples. He’s had practice, obviously; the technique he’s using is pretty much Sylvain’s own, but so much better, firm and demanding. Sylvain doesn't stand a chance of holding back his gasps as Felix pinches one; he can’t choke down his whine as Felix licks at one of them, rolls it between his teeth, pulls back and hums approvingly at how pink and tender it is. 

He’s going to fucking die, teased to fatal sexual frustration by the future version of his best friend. That’s going to go on his tombstone; he’ll have the worst possible eulogy. 

Worth it, though. 

“Weren’t you going to fuck me? Not that this isn’t good,” his voice breaks as Felix leans down to suck at his other nipple, “like, great, fuck, _fuck_ , but please—”

Felix sits back up, snickers down at Sylvain spread helpless on the bed and straddles him, settling himself tantalizing against Sylvain’s cock. “Please what?”

“Fuck me. Fuck me, goddess, I want you, I want your dick, I want you to fuck me until I can’t move, _please_ ,” words spilling out before he can process them in one endless stream of need, and Felix laughs again. The smug little fucker. 

“You ask so well. You sound good when you use your words.” Felix must have grabbed a vial of oil from somewhere; his fingers are slick when they push against Sylvain’s hole. 

He’s already moaning at the finger sliding into his entrance, loose and relaxed enough that it’s easy for Felix to work him open, pressing into his sweet spot every few thrusts until Sylvain’s twitching and gasping, arching futilely up for more stimulation. There’s no uncertainty; Felix knows exactly where to stroke, pressing in for half a second and easing up with perfect precision. Which means, okay, and it’s nearly enough to make Sylvain cum then and there, that there’s a future where Felix has spent a significant amount of time fingering Sylvain open.

“Ready. Ready, I’m so ready, I need you.” Sylvain’s nearly past the point of begging. But Felix said he likes it when Sylvain asks, and when Felix likes things he strokes Sylvain’s hair and tells him he’s _good_ , and how can he not chase that feeling? 

“Really?” Felix scissors his fingers wide, testing; it aches. “I suppose you are. Good Sylvain, keeping track for me.” 

One of these minutes he’s going to burst into tears at Felix’s praise, break down and beg to be held and fucked and told he’s worth something for the rest of time. 

“How should I take you? Do you have an opinion?” And Felix actually waits, expectant, raises an eyebrow as Sylvain doesn't answer immediately. 

Sylvain shuffles carefully onto his hands and knees, shudders as Felix’s calloused hand caresses his thigh. 

“I’ve never fucked you in that jacket. I suppose making you keep it on would be unfair,” Felix muses behind him, where he’s still driving Sylvain crazy with light touches over his thighs. 

“I’ll wear it,” Sylvain gasps out. “If you want. I’ll wear it.” 

There’s Felix’s little laugh again, sending a jolt to Sylvain’s cock and a warm swell to his heart, and how is that fair? How is it fair that Felix does all of this to him? 

He doesn’t get any more warning before Felix is pushing in, stretching him out and filling him up. Of course he doesn’t waste time; of course he sets a hard pace at the perfect angle to make Sylvain whine.

Already Sylvain’s legs are trembling between the strain of holding himself up against Felix’s thrusts, the insistent pleasure, and his uncontrollable quivering every time Felix groans out another fragment of his name.

“Sylvain,” Felix says, regaining his composure even as he’s fucking into Sylvain like there’s no tomorrow. “Tell me how you feel.”

Sylvain practically sobs into the sheets. A bit of dirty talk is one thing, a bit of moaning and gasping is reflexive and expected, but asking for full sentences? For sincerity? For Felix, he tries. 

“Good. You—you make me feel so good,” not just the sex but the hug, the soothing touches, the hands in his hair. “More. Please, more.” 

“Anything you need.” Felix’s speech sounds labored now, but he bends over Sylvain, pressing his chest to Sylvain’s back, breathing against his ear. “Sylvain. You’re good for me, you feel so perfect around my cock. You should cum like this, with me fucking you and talking to you.” 

Can he? Sylvain whines, presses his hips up to meet each of Felix’s thrusts, gasps as he clenches around Felix and feels the tightness building in his core. 

“You have before,” Felix says. “You can. My Sylvain, you can cum for me.” He’s slowing down, grinding deeper at the end of each thrust. “My perfect Sylvain.” 

That does it, the _my perfect Sylvain_ , gripping him and thrusting him right over the edge, cumming onto the bed, over the hem of his shirt. Felix groans, spilling into him a breath later, both of them collapsing onto the bed in a tangled heap. 

Sylvain steals five minutes of cuddling against pliant, sex-exhausted Felix. It’s probably five minutes too many; he should be cleaning himself up and making his exit. Felix disentangles them, stands up to fill a glass of water, and Sylvain steals one more minute to watch him walk across the room. He finally gets up, brushes the worst of the mess off his jacket and tries to ignore the cum trickling down his thigh. 

“What are you doing,” Felix says, more of an exasperated statement than a question. 

“I thought I’d get out of your hair.” The normal flippancy is hard to come by when he’s fucked out and filled with Felix’s cum. 

“Stay. I prefer sleeping next to you.” Felix climbs back into bed and pats the space next to him as though wanting Sylvain to stay is the most natural thing in the world. 

And if that’s what Felix wants, who is he to refuse? Sylvain slips under the covers, nestles hesitantly closer and relaxes in one deep exhale when Felix cuddles up against him.

It’s nice. It’s really nice, relaxing into the warmth of being held, Felix stroking his hair again, breathing slow and deep. 

“So when do we become lovers?” Sylvain asks, soothed into unguarded curiosity. 

Felix sighs. “It takes a few years. We both need to work through some things.” 

“Think I could speed that up? At what point do you even realize you like men?” 

Felix frowns down at him. It’s a pretty frown; Sylvain kisses it. “Why do you think I don’t know? In any case, you can speed it up by working through your own problems faster.” 

Which, fair. “I bet you I can do that.” 

That gets a noncommittal grunt. 

“Hey, don’t doubt me.” He nuzzles into the crook of Felix’s neck, too tired to really argue. “I’ll work on it. I’ll look forward to _this_ , with you. With my you.”

“Good. Remember that.” Felix’s voice is slurred with tiredness. He falls asleep quickly, hand still pressed into Sylvain’s hair. 

Sylvain ought to follow. Tomorrow brings all the normal tasks, classes and chores. But he stays awake for a long while, listening to Felix’s slow breaths, memorizing the feel of their bodies pressed together. “Yeah. Something to look forward to,” he says, feathering a last kiss onto Felix’s neck before finally following him into sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> This one was written for @Gyaradoscoffee on twitter! Quite a while ago. Getting finished things formatted and posted in a timely manner is really my weakness. 
> 
> u can yell about fire emblem with me [here](https://twitter.com/thecaryatid)


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